The Onslaught of War
by TheDemonHuntress
Summary: The War of Kalimdor is over. Yet, 5 years later, chaos begins to resurface in Azeroth. What is behind this? The Undead, Burning Legion, Illidan? It's another war! Please read and review! :) Chapter Threee is now up!
1. Prologue

**The Onslaught of War**

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_Written by: TheDemonHuntress_

PROLOGUE - The Aftermath of the War 

**_You passed away. _**

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**_Away from me; away from your world._**

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**_A sacrifice for a cause-_**

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**_The brutality of war._**

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**_You gave me hope; you gave me life,_**

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**_And now, I reside invisibly in the growing darkness. _**

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**_Where once was light_**

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**_Now shadows creep across the land._**

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**_Where can I find courage, _**

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**_When I once sought it from you?_**

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**_It is now that the blood you shed causes for the sun to rise._**

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**_… and so I will meld away into the darkening abyss of my heart… _**

Death. The scent of mingling carcasses permeated through the air. A blood red sun slowly began its descent below the horizon. It marked the last day of the War of Kalimdor.

Darkness swiftly overcame the last remaining sliver of sunlight. Moonlight shone onto the bodies of fallen allies and foes. Pools of blood trickled gradually into nearby streams, immediately discoloring the water's clear surface.

_There was peace, even in death…_

Various insects chirped throughout the night. A massive and intimidating figure flew overhead, blotting out the moon. It was a chimaera, scouting the regions near Ashenvale Forest. It growled ferociously before flying off into the distance.

Stars twinkled brilliantly in the great beyond. It seemed as if nothing could disrupt the tranquility of the hours of darkness.

Weapons of various sorts lay littered on the blood stained grass. Cleaved axes took their places beside shattered swords and splintered bows.

Echoes ricocheted within deep ravines. Earlier in the day there had been powerful action: Swords hacking away at flesh; arrows screaming through the air; and the brutal aerial assaults upon unsuspecting soldiers.

The war had raged on until finally, the Ancient Wisps were sought for aid. Combining forces for one final stand, the Humans, Orcs, and Night Elves rallied their troops at the foot of Mount Hyjal. Their armies could not match up to the sheer size of the Burning Legion's, for they were gaining troops by the minute.

At last, the armies had collided. The Burning Legion hacked their way through troops, in a straight path to the Night Elves' beloved Mount Hyjal. Hope was nearly lost; the Burning Legion was rapidly progressing upon the mountainside. They advanced in waves, slaying any who stood before them. Many met their fate to the shards of ice spewed out from the ferocious frost wyrms, or fell mercy to the screeching gargoyles who continued their aerial strikes.

Suddenly, the air was still. A warm breeze blew in, whispering through the Night Elves' hair.

Archimonde's ascent onto the mountain was cut abruptly. A horn blew from the distance, sending a small quake under the feet of elves, orcs, and humans.

Enormous icy blue wisps appeared from the dense treetops of Ashenvale Forest. They whipped through the air, encircling the enraged Archimonde.

At once, their flight of fantasy came to a halt. Nothing stirred; it looked as if time had stopped. Then, as if on cue, the Ancient Wisps all bound themselves to Archimonde by a green channel of energy. One by one, each wisp glowed white, and then tremendous beams of light broke out.

**It was a massive detonation. **

The Undead could not withstand the breakout of light. The ghouls and the crypt fiends quickly scampered away, while the gargoyles and frost wyrms flew away as specks in the distance. It had been evident that Archimonde had been defeated.

Victory had been celebrated amongst the survivors, until they cast eyes upon the fallen. Whispers of prayers were murmured, before the races parted their ways and trudged on after their leaders. Their lives would continue; yet none ever forgot the sacrifice their fellow warriors had paid during the War.

A new sun had risen. A new day…a new life to live…a new life of hope, of courage, or ultimately… sacrifice.

_That's it for the prologue! Hope it's not too short…I didn't want to go into too much detail about the War, because that's not the main point of the story! In the next chapter is when the real chaos begins! Please review! :D___


	2. Chapter 1: The Independence of Azeroth

HUMANS

**Chapter 1: The Independence of Azeroth **

Dernier, Azeroth 

                Sunlight flooded through the open window and spilled onto the creamy four-poster bed.  A young man stirred under the sheets, further spreading the wrinkles at the surface.  A barely audible sigh emitted from beneath his blue-laced, white pillow, before a pattern of shallow breathing began once more.

                A sharp knock sounded at the door.  _Rat tap tap! _"Sir, your meal is on the table." A twist of the doorknob, and the door slowly swung open on its hinges.  

                "I'm awake…" The sheets rustled, and the young man pushed aside his pillow.  He shoved himself out of bed, and landed lightly on the floor.  

                _What day is today? _he wondered. He made his way over to the window and stared down, below into the streets.  The peasants were up and about in the fields already, tending to their crops.  However, townsfolk were busy cleaning and setting up decorations along the buildings that lined the streets.  Groups of soldiers roamed outside, silently exchanging glimpses of conversation with one another.  This was no ordinary day.  

                Which reminded the young man…today was a celebration day…for the Independence of Azeroth! Surely, he had overslept, if the preparations had begun already!

                He hastily walked to his wardrobe and selected a fine brown jacket to go with matching pants, as well as a shirt underneath.  Today, he would have to appear his best; it was only the Royal Family's tradition to do so.  With that idea in mind, he changed in record time, and proceeded down to the dining hall.

                His sharp, black shoes clattered down the stairs.  Paintings that reminded him of better times were scattered amongst the walls.  A coat of arms was also visible; the exceptional work of the city's blacksmith.  An elaborate red carpet paved the way to the dining hall.  Numerous stained glass windows caught sunrays and mirrored them into the corridor, adding a splash of color.  

                A man, coated in wealth, sat alone at the rectangular wooden table.  He ate a thin morsel of bread delicately with his fingers.  He acknowledged the young man's presence with a hearty, "Good morning, son."

                The young man took a seat adjacent to his father; at his left.  "Good morning, father."

                "Ah, I see that you have remembered what day it is today," the father noted, approving of his son's attire.  "At least that's better than our dwarven friends-," he continued, putting a sarcastic tone of voice on the word 'friends'.  "No doubt a last-minute excuse, of course…" He scowled as he pulled out a crinkled letter from his pocket and placed it on the table, in front of his son.

                The young man reached out his hand and took the letter from his father's outstretched hand.  He then unfolded it and read: 

_To our King Lyon,_

_                It is with our deepest regrets that we state that we will be unable to feast with you on your day of independence.  For it is on that day, that we will begin our mining expedition in Mount Bharak.  Perhaps we can compensate for this loss another day.  Until then, farewell, and happy lordship!_

_Thorin Ironfoot_

_(Representing the dwarves of Khaz Modan)_

_P.S. - Tell that young lad of yours that his 'uncle' says Hi! _

The young man re-read the letter again, trying to decipher miniscule scribbles here and there.  He worked on smoothing out the edges of the paper, until at last he looked up at his father.  

                "Now, what do you suppose Thorin was talking about, with that reference to him being your uncle?" The young man's father showed no sign of surprise or amusement.

                "The sword that was sent to me-the one in the brown case-it was from Thorin, father." The prince's eyes returned to his father his same penetrating gaze.  Then he added, "It was just a gift for visiting them-the dwarves."

                "So I see." The King took a brief sip of his tea.  "I am aware that you take great pride in that sword.  However…" he leaned in closer to his son's face, "I do not wish for you to delve into your friendship with the dwarves, Athlan.  They are a mighty people, but they can brew up unnecessary dangers in troubling times such as these…" His voice trailed off.  

                Athlan knew about which dangers his father was referring to.  Only a few years ago, the dwarves of Khaz Modan had discovered gold in the mines of Mount Bharak.  Bandits had caught word of the new finding, and warred with the dwarves for several months before Thorin Ironfoot had offered a treaty.  

                The young prince knew that his father did not have a love for dwarves.  He saw them as reckless, both on the battlefield and at the table.  King Lyon assumed that most dwarves were secretive and not exactly the most interesting people to associate with.  He believed that they were dreary, as well as ungrateful little men.  Many riches of his kingdom, Azeroth, were shared with the dwarves.  Yet, they had never thanked the kingdom for its resources, let alone its protection.  In King Lyon's mind, dwarves spelled trouble.  He could do without them; which was the reason why Azeroth did not aid the dwarves in their war.  

                "Anything else sound familiar in that letter?" The King's resonant voice echoed along the walls, immediately shattering the silence.

                Athlan had undeniably heard of Mount Bharak before, but not in terms related to the old war.  He leisurely took a bite of his lightly toasted bread, and hoped that his father would continue.  

                "Son, have you not heard of Mount Bharak?" A kindling fire could be seen in King Lyon's eyes.  "Why, I ordered some of our men to seal up that old mountain's entrance!  There's just no way for those dwarves to get inside of it to do their little 'mining expedition'!" 

                His voice lowered, and he began to mumble.  "Good-for-nothing dwarves…don't give any help when needed…making up excuses all the time…argh, who am I kidding? I don't need those dwarves for anything!"

                "Well, I suppose the dwarves have gotten themselves out of this one." Athlan chuckled at the old dwarf's seemingly failing intelligence.  Dwarves were never partying folk, and they certainly would not celebrate with humans.  King Lyon's relationship with the dwarves of Khaz Modan would undoubtedly assure that.  

                "'Suppose'? Oh yes, they're out of this celebration, all right.  I couldn't have cared less about whether they showed up or not.  It was just a friendly gesture on my part, that's all.

                "Enough of this talk…I'd advise you to finish your meal, and then to meet me down by the Atassian Church.  That's where you'll find the main celebration and feast."

                Having finished said that, the old King stood up, popping a last grape into his mouth.  Two guards were summoned to his side, and escorted him to a hitched wagon that was waiting for him outside.  

                Athlan yelled out a humble 'goodbye' to his father; yet he returned the favor modestly.  

                The prince left his unfinished bread at the table.  What use was there in eating breakfast, when a feast awaited him?  Immediately, guards on either side of him commenced to clear the table.  Athlan stood up and proceeded outside.  

                Not only until he was adjusted to the comforts of his wagon, was Athlan allowed some time to himself,  even _with_ all of the guards surrounding him; he wasn't afraid of them.  Instead, he had learned to ignore them.  To him, they were as stiff and motionless as statues, anyhow.  

                Something was on the young prince's mind.  Athlan had worked hard to keep his relationship with his father out of turmoil, and instead intact.  

                _Damn those Undead!  _Athlan thought bitterly.  _If it weren't for them, everything would be all right…_

                Hardly a day passed by without the words 'Burning Legion' flashing across King Lyon's mind.  It had been 5 years since the defeat of Archimonde at Mount Hyjal.  During the reign of the Burning Legion, Azeroth was a barren wasteland.  Families had been slaughtered; animals slain; and buildings razed to a layer of rubble.  The invasion of Azeroth sent a shockwave through the continent.  The Burning Legion had a new order now.  

                However, the Burning Legion suffered through the War of the Worlds.  Archimonde had been defeated; the Undead threat eliminated temporarily.  Humans renewed Azeroth, and soon it became a bustling kingdom once more.  A Royal Family had been crowned to lead the people to a new life and prosperity.  

                Athlan and his father were not as close as they once were.  The young prince could see fear in his father's eyes; the forced smiles, and the constant mumbling when he was alone.  There had been news of an Undead uprising in the south nearly a week ago.  This time, their leader went by the name Ankhanaden.  

                The Burning Legion was reported as to have scoured the southern coastline of Azeroth.  Once again, the 'unholy land' was visible: The Blight.  It crept across the land, dispersing vegetation and trees.  Hordes of flies roamed under the sun; swarms of bats infested the air at night.  Diseases spread amongst villagers like wildfire.  

                Knights had been sent to scout the area by King Lyon himself.  None of them ever returned.  

                The capital city of Dernier had been fortified excessively, preparing for an attack.  Azeroth's forces dwindled during the War of the Worlds.  King Lyon realized that his forces would have to depend upon defense, rather than offense.  

                Today, King Lyon would be warier than ever.  Nearly all of the inhabitants of Azeroth would be celebrating and feasting.  The Undead would perhaps seize this advantage, and attack the citizens while they were assembled together!  Athlan was no stranger to Undead tactics.  He had fought in the War, and saw how the Undead carried out their business.  They were stealthy and secretive; and of course, their leaders were always cunning.  

                Athlan glanced out of the moving wagon.  Small children were running about, following their parents' shadows.  Groups of villagers gathered around laughing stocks of men.  To Athlan, nearly the whole city was oblivious to the impending dangers that lay ahead.  

                The wagon came to a halt.  In front of Athlan's eyes was the formidable façade of the Atassian Church.  

                It had been an old church; at least centuries old.  The church was painted white, and was easily recognized by its giant steeple.  Several bells tolled ceremoniously as they swayed back and forth.  In front of the entrance were wooden rectangular tables laden with food of many varieties.  

                There were older couples dancing in the streets, and on raised platforms.  The majority of citizens had dressed up for the occasion, sporting their best outfits and dresses.  

                Athlan spotted his father sitting at a table.  Next to him sat a young woman.  She was dressed in a fine silk dress that was a shade of light lavender.  Her face reflected beautiful features, and her lengthy blond hair rippled down her back.  She was Meridia, the daughter of King Alnoras of Lordaeron.  She directed her eyes in Athlan's direction, and caught him watching her.  "Hey, Athlan! Come on over here!"

                Athlan picked up his feet and forced himself to saunter towards his father's table.  He took a seat between his father and Meridia.  "Hello, Meridia." Athlan glanced off into the opposite direction.  

                "How have things been lately?  You must be pretty busy now, training nearly everyday…Do you enjoy fighting?" Meridia's eyes lay transfixed on Athlan, even while she was chattering away.  

                The Azeran prince wished for Meridia to cease her endless questions.  She almost seemed like an intolerable jukebox at times, even at the age of 20.  

                For the last ten years, Athlan had lived with the knowledge of Meridia's secret love for him.  It was on occasions such as today that he would come across a face-to-face confrontation with her.  Although she was very beautiful, Athlan could not bring himself to fall for a woman such as Meridia.  

                Meridia and Athlan had grown up as childhood friends in Lordaeron, after the destruction of Azeroth.  Her father, King Alnoras, had ruled the kingdom of Lordaeron with a wise right hand.  One of his own personal advisors had been Athlan's father.  

                However, King Alnoras began to observe competition in his lordship with King Lyon.  Many of the Lordaeron folk saw a wise method of ruling in King Lyon.  Citizens preferred the benign and nonviolent ways of King Lyon.  Yet, others saw greed in King Lyon's eyes to gain lordship over Lordaeron.  Soon, a rebellion between sides was evident.  

                A break in the mounting tension arrived after the War of Kalimdor.  King Lyon and his followers boldly took their first steps into Azeroth again and renewed their shattered kingdom of old.  It was only once every few years that Athlan encountered Meridia again.  

                Athlan felt somewhat uncomfortable sitting beside Meridia today.  In Athlan's eyes, she was a spoiled brat, living in the splendor of her father's kingdom.  Citizens of Lordaeron and Azeroth eyed one another suspiciously; the kingdoms had first split due to their differences.

                "I'm fine, Meridia," Athlan muttered.  His father would soon be delivering a speech to the people of Dernier, Azeroth.  It was the least that he could look forward to at the moment.

                "Excuse me, Meridia." Athlan stood up and made his way to the opposite end of the table.  He hoped that Meridia would not ask where he was gong; to his surprise, she eagerly joined in conversation with his father.  

                Athlan walked to the edge of the city outskirts.  Surrounding the entrance to the fortified city was a dense forest.  Although it looked very thick, it was quite navigable; early settlers had lay down a path outlined with logs throughout the forest.  Athlan found himself attracted to the serenity of the forest that cool morning.  

                The Fensae Forest was an old forest indeed.  Its gurgling streams and cascading waterfalls offered peace and comfort to any who searched for it.  As Athlan walked through the forest, he was a witness to Mother Nature's beauty.  Lush vegetation and colossal trees surrounded either side of him.  Songbirds sung their melodies in a chorus amongst the treetops.  

                The young prince loved the forest, even if his status in life limited his visits there.  Fensae Forest was simply his thinking spot.  The forest was pure, free of corruption for the time being.  Athlan withdrew from public attention, and instead spent his time marveling at the wonders of the forest.  

                He located a small stream and stooped at the edge of it.  His reflection came back to him, clear and nearly still.

                The young Azeran prince was a handsome one as well.  His face was as smooth as the running water in the stream.  He also had gorgeous icy blue eyes that seemed to melt into water when looked upon.  His light brown hair was kept shoulder-length, and bangs were pushed to the side of his face.

                Movement up ahead.  Athlan quickly got to his feet.  He wished that he had a weapon of some sort, and, thinking quickly, he hid behind a giant maple tree.  

                There was something running up ahead.  It sounded as if there were two creatures running; the resounding sound of hooves hitting the ground, and the quick scampering of a creature in pursuit. 

                The noises stopped abruptly.  A horrifying squeal of panic followed, echoing through the woods.  Then there was nothing.  The breeze that blew gently onto the prince's face died down.  Even the treetops were lonely in the absence of melodious songbirds.  

                Athlan remained hidden.  After sufficient time had passed, he made a rash decision to investigate what the scuffle was about.  

                Sunlight filtered through the leafy canopy and into a clearing ahead.  The forest was deathly silent; something had to be wrong.  

                Sprawled out across the ground was a young stag.  Its neck as arched, and its legs kicked out from its body in graceful death.  Its blood-matted mane concealed a severed throat with deep gashes oozing with blood.  

                Athlan immediately rushed over to the fallen animal.  He knelt by its side and gently stroked its side.  It was a sin, killing such a pure and innocent beast.

                There was a putrid stench circulating throughout the air.   And the ground…Athlan noticed that the very soil beneath his feet was decaying…into rotten dirt.  Green drops of acid appeared at the surface, forming a fine latticework of veins etched into the ground.

                It was the Blight.  The very land that nourished the Undead now scavenged its way through the purity of Fensae Forest.  Now that Athlan gazed up at the miles of Blight that loomed up ahead, he wondered why he hadn't noticed it before.

                The forest now gave Athlan the impression of eeriness.  

                Above all other sounds, there were distant voices: 

                "Come now, we have just a bit to go before victory shall be ours," came a voice.

                "It won't be too short of a distance…we shall have fun with our enemies, Khaj'Aden.  For shall we not...?"

                "My lord…they already have word of our coming.  No doubt they shall be prepared? Khaj'Aden replied boldly.

                "Silence!  Because they are ready, does not make the weaklings any stronger than we may take them for.  Do I make myself clear?  We are staying with our plan." 

                "Y-Yes, my lord…" stammered Khaj'Aden.  "The Kingdom of Azeroth shall fall!"

                So it had begun.  All of the forewarnings, all of the predictions…they had all been true.

                The Undead were back, and they were vying to reclaim Azeroth as their own domain.  

                Athlan figured it wasn't safe to linger on in the forest alone.  The possibilities of an attack on Dernier now became obvious.  Athlan bade farewell to the forest and its inhabitants.

                Little did he know that it would be his last visit.

**Half an hour later…**

                "Father, father!" Athlan dashed up to the podium and interrupted his father's speech.  At this point, the prince was panting heavily from having ran nearly the entire distance from Fensae Forest to Dernier.  

                King Lyon opened his mouth as if to speak again, but no words came out.  He turned towards his son and narrowed his stern eyes.  "Son, this had better be something worth remembering."  His eyes glanced around the disrupted audience as he managed an uneasy smile.

                "But it is!" Athlan cried. "The Undead are in the forest, father!  They're taking over the area!"

                King Lyon knew better than to doubt his own son's words.  He cleared his throat and announced to the audience that the celebration was over.

                Once the townsfolk had all emptied out, King Lyon seated himself at a table and asked for Athlan to join him.

                "Did you see any of them?" The King's question came tense and sharp.

                "No… but I saw the Blight…it was extending into Fensae, and the animals were being killed as well!" Athlan was forced to remember the morbid death of the stag.

                King Lyon winced at the word 'Blight'.  He had vowed to himself to lead a lifelong campaign against the Burning Legion.  To see the lands of Azeroth being greedily gobbled up by the Undead without resistance was painful to comprehend with.  

                "Thank you, Athlan." The King rose up from his table and brought his son and several men to his castle hastily.

                Once they had arrived, King Lyon began to issue orders to his captains.

                "Meilot." The King took a quick glance around.

                "I am here, your majesty."

                "You had better be.  Take 100 archers or so, and place them on the wall facing the moat.  Make sure their quivers are full, and their daggers ready.  

                "Right away, your highness." Meilot mounted a horse and dashed away to the barracks.  

                "Khanar!" Lyon yelled.

                "Right here!" The short and stocky captain made his way from the back of the crowd to in front of King Lyon.

                "Assemble 1000 of your most loyal footmen and place them in front of the outer gate.  I want at least 100 sturdy knights there, along with any last-minute volunteers."

                "Of course." Khanar galloped on his horse off into the distance.  

                "Braken!" 

                "Over here, sir!" The voice was muffled in the crowd surrounding the King.

                "Do we have any vehicles- any gyrocopters or working mortars?"

                "Yes, my King…we have 50 gyrocopters and at least 30 mortars."

                "Good.  Bring them to the front gate, and place them behind the infantry."

                "As you wish." The captain turned to leave, but was stopped by King Lyon.

                "Braken…make sure that this time, those dwarves don't have fun pushing random buttons on the gyrocopters…" King Lyon shot a stern glance at his first captain.

                "I'll make certain of it."  And with that, the captain began his walk to the workshops.

                "As for you…" King Lyon diverted his attention onto his son.  "I don't want to see you in any of this… stay on the premises of the castle."

                "But father…what about you?"

                "Athlan…" King Lyon's voice faded to a whisper, yet it still held firm.  "My time is nearly spent.  If I were to leave, then at least I would wish to see myself die amongst those protecting our kingdom.  Understand that now, you are the single most important thing in my life…I would sacrifice anything for you…but I would like to see it being put to good use.

                "You are not a coward for staying behind lines of combat, son.  You are a brave warrior, one who desires to keep his own father's wishes at heart.  For are you not?"

                "I know what it is you want of me, father." And with that reply, Athlan embraced his father, making no effort to hide the tears gently trickling from his eyes and onto his father's shoulder.

                The King patted his son's back softly.  "Farewell, Athlan."        

                Athlan broke their embrace and gazed into his father's eyes.  His face contracted into a smile as he answered, "Goodbye, father."

                "We ride into danger, my warriors!" King Lyon cried as he and his fellow captains mounted their trusty steeds and rode to battle.

                The front ranks of the army peered out onto the expanse of fields across the moat.  There, spilling across the fields rose their enemy, waiting.

                _…and watching._

_Chapter 1 is completed! Please review and tell me what you think of it! Azeroth and the Undead wage war in Chapter 2! _


	3. Chapter 2: The Battle for Azeroth

Author's Note: _Geez, I haven't updated in a century! Sorry for the long wait! Finals were killing me and I **somewhat **got hooked onto B.net… But here's thanks to all of you reviewers! _

**Xelfan12**: Thanks! I promise, updating won't take this long in the future, so you will get the full story!

**Prince of all Saiyans:**Thanks a lot for the review! Once again, I'm sorry that I could not have updated any sooner!

**darth**: Yes, you're correct in saying that the capital would be Stormwind, only, and I'll mention this now, since it got cut out, **This fanfic is pure Reign of Chaos.** So, since Stormwind was not introduced to us in RoC, I decided to make up my own name for the capital.

**Silversnow**: Thanks!

Now, onto Chapter 2!

HUMANS

**Chapter 2: The Battle for Azeroth**

Graïch Meadow

The Undead advanced over the hills and halted before the moat, just out of an arrow's reach. Before them emerged their leader, a larger-than-life dreadlord.

He was Ankhanaden, the new leader of the Burning Legion. The arch lord was wreathed in whitish-blue flames emitting from a massive black cloak. Chains crossed over his chest, and bound each of his legs. Black armor, studded with skulls, covered his body and made him appear larger than he really stood. His skin was far from smooth; it looked a deep tinge of blue, bumpy, and rather reptile-like. Gauntlets clad his fists, with menacing spikes protruding outwards.

As he stood alone before the Undead army, Ankhanaden could, without effort, size up the human forces awaiting him at the castle.

'The pathetic fools!' Ankhanaden smiled to himself unnoticeably. It was not in the dreadlord's nature to show any hint of emotion whatsoever, especially when it dealt with his own pleasure. If he were to keep order amongst his troops, then he would have to appear merciless-as it was an Undead general's task to do so.

The human troops looked disheveled as they struggled to organize themselves in front of the Undead force. Years of training had still resulted in messy organization. At attack on Azeroth had not been predicted soon; if it had, the evidence had led King Lyon to suspect an attack in about half a year. Clearly, the humans had all been deceived and outwitted by Ankhanaden.

And weak did the Azerans look in Ankhanaden's eyes. However, there was something else in the eyes of the warriors that he failed to notice.

It was the heart of a warrior that kindled in the depths of their eyes. Undeterred loyalty was what drove them to protect their king by any means, to whatever end.

It was also courage that emitted from these warrior hearts that gave them strength to face the burning Legion. Although they were greatly outnumbered, the Azerans believed that they could at least unite in the path of evil and vanquish it.

Ankhanaden displayed a smug smile as he stepped out to challenge the kingdom Azeroth.

"Azeroth stands before me now, huddled behind its own mother's walls. I see now that you wish to be cramped within them, as your offense is clearly lacking.

"However, I will offer you a pact. In order to stop wasting our time, I will allow you to surrender to the army that stands behind me and myself, in exchanged for making your deaths only slow and painful."

The ghouls broke into a fit of sniggering after hearing this last statement, while the frost wyrms bellowed mightily. Spirit and morale soared as banshees sustained their cries full of anguish.

"I will give you five minutes to consider my agreement," continued Ankhanaden. "Hurry up and tell that old fool of yours that you call your king!"

Inside the castle walls… 

Every soldier had heard it. The announcement of Ankhanaden's offer rang out clearly in their ears.

They were outnumbered _at least_ four to one. Even worse, the necromancers could change the tide of battle with their ability to summon warriors from corpses.

The soldiers were all uneasy. Some were thinking of their families, beautiful faces appearing before their eyes. In order to save them, they would have to bide time by sacrificing their own lives.

A soldier on the embattlements quicky dashed down to the center of they surrounded city. However, he lost his sense of direction as he approached the king's castle.

A guard standing by the entrance to the castle noticed the lost soldier blundering about. As the soldier approached, the guard saw a fearful expression on his face.

"What is it?" The guard questioned the soldier.

"The Undead are standing just outside the city walls! Their leader has given the king five minutes to try and negotiate a truce with him!"

"You idiot!" The guard snapped back. "Do you seriously believe the words of that foul-mouthed bastard? He wishes to take over the world, not to have us living as his slaves!"

"Let me just see the king," the soldier pleaded. "He's still in charge of the battle at least!"

The guard dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "I've had enough of your thoughts for today. Grenich, show this man where the king is at."

A guard on the balcony stepped forward and signaled for the soldier to follow him. As the solider passed down several hallways and flights of stairs, he noticed that all of the windows were boarded up, with light only steaming in through few stained glass windows. If it were not for the magnificent stained glass windows, the king's castle could have been mistaken for an abandoned house.

Finally, the guard halted in front of a wooden door. He knocked thrice, and waited patiently.

"What is it?" The king's voice was recognized at once.

"There is a visitor for you, milord," the guard responded.

"Who cares who it is," the king cut in hastily. "I wouldn't be surprised at anyone wanting to visit me nowadays."

Footsteps could be heard, and the door was flung open. Inside stood King Lyon, donned with gleaming brass armor.

The guard bowed to his King, and retreated back to his post, making the soldier along once again.

"So you wanted to see me…" King Lyon began.

"Yes, milord… their leader wishes to see whether or not you will negotiate with them."

"Really, now?" The king's voice was packed with sarcasm. "It's usually not like them to actually waste time on something as delicate as a negotiation… they must be losing their touch.

"No matter, you can tell him that I agree to nothing that he offers, and that he'll have to come searching for me!"

"Right away, your majesty." The soldier bowed and returned to the embattlements.

"What took you so long?" Asked a fellow soldier as the weary soldier returned.

"Didn't know where the king was." The soldier panted heavily and leaned against a wall.

"It's been more than five minutes, anyhow," the fellow soldier answered. "They may as well attack us any moment now."

"They will… the king's doing nothing to stop it."

Both the soldiers' dismay was suddenly interrupted by Ankhanaden's voice.

"So that old fool of yours has finally given up! He doesn't even send a message? Ha! Just as I had expected!

"As if I would have heeded any of that idiot's words! Now, I will show you how to truly tremble!"

As Ankhanaden raised his arm into the air, a mystical chanting could be heard coming from the necromancers as a deep war cry arose from Ankhanaden. Not only did the land beneath their feet turn into Blight, but also the ghouls and crypt fiends began to glow with clouds of gray dust surrounding their bodies.

But before any units rushed forward to begin the onslaught, thirty rickety meat wagons reeled themselves in front of the Undead ranks. At once, they hurled diseased corpses that had been loaded onto their hinges at the human towers and troops on the embattlements.

As soon as the corpses hit their targets, mayhem began, and chaos broke out. Soldiers who had not been killed by the force of the corpses had been severely wounded, and disease clouds emitting from the corpses spread like wildfire. Archers desperately attempted to hit the distant mea wagons, but to no avail. Soldiers, in their own panic, scrambled about and trampled fellow comrades.

As the human towers fell, frost wyrms and gargoyles appeared near the front ranks as the meat wagons destroyed the front gate and retreated.

As soon as the frost wyrms and gargoyles flew by overheard, the entire Burning Legion army lurched forward and began the assault.

With the front ranks of their army composed of ghouls, crypt fiends, and abominations, and their anterior ranks including necromancers and banshees, the Burning Legion was a formidable sight.

The waves of the pounding feet on the meadow were nearly deafening. However, the humans added their own war cries to the commotion.

"For Azeroth!"

"For the great king!"

"Frreeedom!"

The footmen and knights of the human army clashed violently with the ghouls and abominations of the Burning Legion. Hooked limbs passed by as humans evaded abominations' attacks.

_Swish! Thock!_

The sounds of arrows piercing their targets resounded as they severed the front ranks of the Burning Legion. However, as soon as allies or foes had fallen, the necromancers moved in to use their Raise Dead spell. Soon, the battlefield was clear of corpses and replaced with living skeleton warriors.

Ankhanaden boldly stepped forward to the front ranks. As he raised his hand in the air, it began to glow with a deep green fire. A few moments later, a swarm of carrion beetles emerged from the fire and rushed out forward, immediately engulfing any human soldiers. Shrieks of pain let out as an instant later, the soldiers fell down to the ground, as skeletons as glistening beetles scuttled away from them.

The melee units of Azeroth began to question why they so willingly threw their lives away in front of the Undead commander.

As the Undead advanced closer to breaching the walls of Dernier, it became evident to King Lyon that the Azeran defensive advantage would soon crumble, just as the gate had.

And yet the soldiers continued to fight. Hope still gleamed in the eyes of most of the warriors.

But what hope was there now? No morsel of hope, no last drop of it to savor existed in the king's mind.

_Will you let them fight alone? _A voice in King Lyon's head rang clearly, speaking out.

_We are alone in this fight. The Elves of the North, the Dwarves, even Lordaeron… all of them too far of a distance to ask for assistance now! _

_ Then if your heart allows it, be true to yourself. Be true to the promise you made to your son. _As the sentence completed, the voice faded away, until it finally dissipated.

Athlan! Where was he now? The king's mind was fretful as he entered the great battle, immediately engaging with an enemy on his left.

A mere several yards away from his father, Athlan had disobeyed him.

The battle had already been deemed hopeless. But what use was there in idling around and being a witness to the slaughter?

As these thoughts interrupted the young prince's mind, a hooked arm swung by overhead, grazing his hair.

Athlan dealt with the abomination quickly by issuing a sharp stab to its stomach. The creature moaned as it swung its hook-arms wildly in its death dance before coming to rest at Athlan's feet.

Across from the moat, Khaj'Aden had noticed the fighting King Lyon. For a frail-looking old man, the king shone as a warrior in the heat of battle.

_He's fighting._ The Lich uttered these words into his mind, as if waiting for a reply.

_The fool, I knew it. Show me…_ Ankhanaden's voice was heard instantly in the mind chasms of the Lich.

Khaj'Aden raised a skeletal hand into the air, whereupon the floating image of a skull surrounded by black fire materialized across the sky.

Serving as a beacon to Ankhanaden, the symbol came into view several hundred feet away from him. The Undead leader took but one glance in its direction before it disappeared and Ankhanaden went with all haste to the Lich.

Muttering an ancient chant, Khaj'Aden commenced with a formidable spell: Death and Decay.

The air within the spell's vicinity began to thicken with the stench of corpses. The ground, it seemed, transformed into liquid as soldiers sank waist-deep into the Earth.

However, it would not be the sinking motion that frightened the warriors. No, it would be the appearance of hundreds of fiendish hands appearing through the muck, claming onto any enemy limbs that were within reach. These hands, the underworld spirits that were commanded by the Lich, sought only to annihilate the enemy- the humans.

Just the sight of these forearms, splattered with blood and decaying flesh, was enough to make the soldiers flee to the inner castle.

**If only they could.**

Movement was what triggered the response of the vile hands. Once attached onto a target, they would not latch free. Instead, they were parasites- absorbing the energy from the soldiers while it nourished them and allowed them to grow.

So doom had met numerous soldiers. The once pure meadow now became stained with the spilled blood of the soldiers as they collapsed into the liquid ground.

It was only until nothing living stood anymore that the spell ceased. The undead hands swayed and slithered back into the earth, awaiting their master's next beckoning.

Along with dealing serious damage to the troops of Azeroth, the spell had bided time for the Burning Legion as well. By the time the spell had ended, Ankhanaden had reached the Lich's side already.

"Good work with that magic of yours, Lich…" Ankhanaden began. "That old fool is nearly fighting alone now!"

Both the general and the commander peered across the moat at the pitiful remaining soldiers of the human army. Nearly all of them were engaged in combat; being heavily outnumbered on all sides. From a distance, there appeared to be only one hundred soldiers remaining.

It was like prey being trapped in a cage surrounded by its enemy… only the prey was fresh.

As Ankhanaden approached him, King Lyon could sense his comrades falling, being slain at his side until there was a gap to his right. It was at this time that he noticed Athlan.

"Athlan! What're you doing here?!" Although the king's voice was sharp, it was not filled with the expected anger.

"Father! This is insane! I can't let you just run off into a hopeless battle!" Athlan shielded himself from a blow and hacked the arm off of a ghoul.

"You should've listened to your father, fool…" Ankhanaden interrupted. "Or else you would not have to witness this!"

With one swift swoop, Ankhanaden reached out his hand and clamped it around the king. In the blink of an eye, he threw the king against an outer wall.

The resounding crunch rang in the ears of the Azerans. Athlan could only stare in disbelief once the impact occurred and watched his father's crippled body slide down the masonry.

"Father!" Athlan dashed over to his father's limp body. He was lost for words as he checked for a pulse when he knew that there wasn't one.

As he stared fearfully back at the Burning Legion force, Athlan shouted out to the wall archers, "Retreat!"

Every soldier filed his way into the inner wall before the Burning Legion's victory over Azeroth had been assured.

_Well, this chapter was a bit shorter than the previous one. I plan on having my next chapter from the Night Elf perspective, but I'm also interested in knowing which race you guys would like to hear from next! As always, please review! It makes my day! _


	4. Chapter 3: Awakening

NIGHT ELVES

Chapter 3: Awakening 

Southern Moonglade, Ashenvale

Visions. Visions were engulfing Cambria Shadowmoon's mind. Images flew in front of her eyes, some coming to rest in the center of her sight.

She tussled around in her hammock. Where were these images coming from, and what were they?

_A lonely flower whittling away in a field…_

_ A tossed rock creating ripples in an otherwise still pond…_

_ The rumbling of war drums in the distance…_

_ A small hut in a grassy clearing… _

_ And a human building… one with steeples and stained glass windows…_

What did it all mean? Cambria awoke in a sweat. Still puzzled over her visions, she descended from her makeshift hammock and proceeded to her group's tent.

Cambria Shadowmoon was no stranger to these woods. Although Furion Stormrage had recently assured her that the woods were safe, she did not believe him this time. There had been increasingly frequent raids on the elves' encampments. Adding to these troubles, the Furbolgs of Ashenvale had split off their previous alliance with the night elves. Cambria was not a fool, either, as she notched her bowstring and kept a sharp lookout in all directions.

As she walked, she looked like a shadow, darting from tree to tree. She adorned herself with jewelry; on her head she wore a silver moon pendant, an emerald necklace hung from her neck, and her crescent moon earrings glistened in the moonlight.

The air was crisp. Not dry like the surface of a tree, but rather moist, like the dewdrops clinging to leaves in the moonlight.

A nightingale called out, its song echoing through the wood. The trees of Ashenvale were massive giants, shading the forest floor from the moon, except for the beams of light that broke out along Cambria's path.

So lay the undisturbed forest in its hours of sleep. It was in harmony with the night, adding to its peaceful tranquility.

As Cambria approached the isolated and well-camouflaged tent, her sharp ears could hear voices inside. There were two distinct voices: one of a female and one of a male.

She opened the tent flap and found that her ears were true to her. To her left stood Tyrande Whisperwind, current high priestess, and leader of the Night Elf Sentinels. To her right sat a strange night elf wrapped in a cloak.

Cambria had never seen this stranger before. However, she quickly concluded that this must've been the owner of the male night elf voice.

The stranger sat alone in a corner, bent double by his cloak, which was tarnished and patched in numerous areas. He appeared to be quite tall, with his long legs stretched before him.

"Welcome, Priestess…" Cambria took a small bow.

"Welcome…" Cambria faltered as she was unsure about how to address the stranger.

"Our visitor here would be Nefirros, Cambria." Tyrande cleared up the stranger's identity. "He is from the north, a protector of the mountains of Felwood."

"I am honored to be in your presence, Priestess," Nefirros responded.

"That is well." Tyrande smiled at the night elf. "However, we came here to discuss important matters, Cambria.

"A revival in our alliance with the Furbolgs is very unlikely at this point. The raids being conducted at our camps have been carried out by the Furbolgs around the area. A fortnight ago, the chieftain of these tribes was seen at one of these raids. And just now… Nefirros was ambushed while traveling here."

Cambria shifted her gaze towards the elf. "Oh! Are you alright?" She instantly moved towards a bag of herbs and began sifting through the contents.

"It is being taken care of," Nefirros replied calmly. He threw off his cloak and showed Cambria tightly strung leaves with herbs protecting a wound on his arm.

"So the Furbolgs are planning attacks…" Cambria said after a pause, "seemingly directed at us night elves…"

"They may be under some sort of influence again," Nefirros suggested, taking a sip of tea. "But they certainly do not seem to be corrupt as they were before the War."

"That is true." Tyrande fixed a cloak onto her shoulders and gathered her belongings. "Although it also should be noted that these attacks are unlikely to stop if we do not find out what is causing them."

"…And if there is no outside influence? Cambria asked as Tyrande walked over to the tent flap.

Tyrande paused for a moment's worth. She then replied, "However much that reason is doubtful, we must still protect ourselves- and the entirety of Ashenvale. The Furbolgs will have to be dealt with if that is the case.

"I fear I may have stayed for too long. I will return to see Furion about these matters. Please do take care of yourselves."

"Priestess, I cannot allow myself to have you traveling the nights alone," Cambria spoke up. "Please, take a few sentinels with you."

"I thank you for your kindness, sister. Elune adore- hopefully you will be hearing from me soon."

"Goodnight, Priestess," Nefirros said.

"May you have a safe trip!" Cambria summoned five archers to accompany the priestess.

After she bade farewell to the priestess, Cambria sat down at a stout wooden table that had been laden with various fruits and books. _The answer to this problem won't be found in a book_, she told herself.

"Nefirros," Cambria began, "are you saying with us here?"

"For a while, yes. This plague of Furbolgs has not yet reached my homeland, Felwood. I traveled here to investigate the matter and perhaps help you in defending against it."

"Then I am glad that you have chosen to stay with us… our numbers are few this far south, and we are very sparsely populated."

Both night elves sat in silence until Nefirros broke the silence:

"Cambria, are you the leader of your group here?"

"Yes, I am," Cambria replied, perplexed about the randomness of the question.

"I see… and you have not noticed anything unusual lately around these woods?"

"No, I haven't… I had only heard of camp raids, but I did not know that Furbolgs were behind these crimes until I had just came here tonight."

"Whatever the case may be, I am a follower and protector of your tribe henceforth." Nefirros attempted an elaborate bow; only the wound on his arm hindered him.

Cambria gave a small laugh as she went to help the warrior get up onto his feet. However, she noticed that he was more than capable of supporting himself as she saw muscles under his light tunic.

"If you're going to attempt anything like that again, then I'd suggest you get some rest tonight," Cambria recommended. "Tomorrow morning, we head out east to gather up some provisions and water."

"As you wish." Nefirros fastened back on his cloak and exited the tent with Cambria, into the outside brightening twilight.

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It was around noon the next day when Cambria awoke. Although nearly half the day had been spent, many of the elves in the camp had not yet awoken.

Cambria was known to be an early riser. Otherwise, she knew that the elves would not follow after a lazy leader.

A small fire was prepared, and within the following hours, the elves began to waken and shake off their slumber. Soon enough, the small camp's inhabitants were bustling about.

The sun had begun its descent through the sky by the time the night elves set off due west. They were careful in covering their tracks; the fire had been sputtered out by water, the tents destroyed, and debris had been scattered over noticeable footprints.

Nefirros, who walked in the back of the night elf formation, was beginning to lag behind the pack. It was not his injury that delayed him, however; the beauty of Ashenvale forest fascinated the warrior. Anything that the elf lay his eyes on- from the cradling giants of trees, to the sparkling streams, captivated him.

It was difficult to comprehend that just last night, the peace of the forest had been disturbed by a pack of Furbolgs. Nefirros took a quick glance around at his surroundings and armed himself with a bow, at the ready. However, he was still confused as to where Cambria was leading the group.

In order to get his question answered, Nefirros walked at a slightly quicker pace to catch up with Cambria.

Although she was the leader of her group and commanded high respect, Cambria did not adorn herself, as one would expect of an elf of such high status. She wore a light blue tunic, which was covered by a brown traveler's cloak. She, too, carried a bow with a brown quiver hanging over her shoulder. Such drab colors, even with the addition of shimmering jewelry and armor, were not displayed with the intention to flatter oneself.

Yet it was not the attire that made Cambria Shadowmoon captivating. To Nefirros, it was the silken blue hair that lightly shaded her luscious blue eyes. When looked upon, sunlight danced in her eyes while her blue hair offset her eye color.

As Nefirros approached her, he found that because she walked alone, she sang an unknown song softly to herself.

"Cambria, where is it exactly that we are headed to?" Nefirros asked.

"Nefirros!" Cambria exclaimed in shock. "I thought you were bringing up the rear ranks…"

"Yes, I was," Nefirros replied. "Only I could not suppress my curiosity any longer… where is it exactly that we are headed to?"

"Today I plan on stopping at a sanctuary in the woods." She then continued, in a softer tone, "It is not known to many, so I hope that we may avoid trouble along the way, by any means. The night elf-"

But before Cambria could complete her sentence, a cry rang out from an archer behind her. In an instant, she turned around and readied her bow with an arrow.

From bushes near where the archer lay, came forth half a dozen Furbolgs. Only they looked to be… bloodlusted?

In the eyes of each Furbolg shone a kindling fire in their eyes. Their pupils were dilated, along with foam oozing out of their mouths. Instead of being the normal height of a small tree, the Furbolgs were at least a quarter larger than they previously were. They set their prints in the ground clearly as intimidating beasts.

"Defend yourselves!" Cambria shouted out over the confusion.

At once, the elves dropped whatever they were carrying and armed themselves with their weapons of war.

"Nefirros…" Cambria added, "We can take care of these foul creatures. Please do not get involved… you are still injured."

"Injured I many be, but I can still fight!" Nefirros responded fiercely, showing a hatred for the Furbolgs. He let fly an arrow, which pierced the thick hide of a nearby Furbolg.

At least three of the Furbolgs had fallen, their bodies punctured with protruding arrows.

As arrows flew through the air, night elves fell to the crushing power of the blood-frenzied Furbolgs. Swinging their arms violently, they were able to slice through the elves' armor with their slashing claws. Height brought about another advantage, however, as the Furbolgs were able to trample the elves in their tracks.

Cambria had seen enough. This madness had to be stopped, before she would lose any more troops.

Unsheathing a moon glaive that had been bestowed upon her years past, she made her way into the center of the fray. Carefully lining herself up with the three remaining beasts, Cambria shouted, "Let's see if you can catch this!" before flinging her moon glaive in a boomerang-like motion.

The glaive sliced through the air, immediately cutting the three Furbolgs' legs as it flew around in a semi-circle, before it returned to its owner.

Upon contact, the Furbolgs wobbled on their shaky legs, which were cut and bleeding freely from where the glaive had hit them.

Excluding the pain, the Furbolgs soon began to feel weakness from their loss of blood. Adding to this new feeling, the elves continued to relentlessly shower the Furbolgs with a flurry of arrows.

One by one, the great beasts fell, again leaving their marks on the earth, this time as they exited their world. Six corpses lay scattered on the ground, formerly devastating Furbolgs, powered by their bloodlust.

Cambria began to count her group's losses. As she walked around the former battlefield, she shook her head and sighed. She looked up at Nefirros despairingly. "Five archers have fallen. We'll never survive another attack with such a small force now."

Nefirros did not reply immediately. He had underestimated the power of the Furbolgs, but more than that, Cambria was beginning to lose hope in her group already. _She's overlooking our power_, Nefirros told himself bitterly. _My power… the group's loyalty…_

"We will make it," he responded at last. "I believe that you are still overlooking our force, no matter what our numbers may be."

"You wouldn't know the woods around these areas," Cambria replied coldly. "How would you know anything about what creatures live here, and which ones _like_ to attack us?"

Nefirros could only look back into the leader's eyes, nearly shaken by her sudden cruelty.

"…I didn't mean it that way," Cambria added after a brief pause, shifting her tone from cold to apologetic. "Forgive me… I'm sorry to have despaired so soon." She lowered her gaze down to the ground.

"I understand," Nefirros replied considerately. "Sometimes our feelings get the better of us."

Cambria merely smiled, and silently agreed with him. She continued to lead the group, until she stopped abruptly in her tracks.

"Wh-what is it?" Nefirros asked uneasily as Cambria stared, mesmerized, at a small path leading off the main trail.

She sustained her silence as she stepped onto the dirt path leading into the woods, with Nefirros following closely behind her.

It was not until she reached the end of the path, which was shaded by trees, that Cambria realized what she was walking into.

Just as she had expected, Cambria found herself intruding upon an abandoned Furbolg camp. It looked like…

'_A small hut in a grassy clearing…'_

It was then that as Cambria closed her eyes, she experienced the vision of the Furbolg camp once again, as it appeared exactly before her now.

"It can't be…" she muttered to herself. She had nearly tossed the visions out of her mind, dismissing them as merely being a dream.

Nefirros felt a change come over Cambria. He looked over at her, only to find her gaze still transfixed onto the Furbolg camp.

He laid his hand on her shoulder, only to have Cambria spin around and look seemingly out of breath.

"What is it?" Nefirros asked. As he took a quick glance around the camp, his eyes did not find anything out of the ordinary: Several huts, toasted fires, trees, and shrubs…

"It's… it's nothing." Cambria looked up at Nefirros and smiled. Only on the inside, she was worried, pondering the thought of why she was experiencing these sudden visions. More importantly, _Was I chosen for these visions?_

"Let's continue on," Cambria shouted, regaining her authority over the tightly knit group.

The rest of the day continued on in silence, with Cambria not taking so much as a glance back at her followers. Even reaching Cambria's safe haven at twilight did not seem to affect the leader's mood in a negative or positive manner.

Nefirros sat on a large rock, lodged in a steam while he looked over at Cambria, sitting alone at the campfire. He didn't know what seemed to come over her at the Furbolg camp. Cambria was not caught speaking with anyone else and did not take one glance in his direction.

The warrior spent his night alone, amidst claims from the group members that he had upset their leader. Apparently, the rest of the group was against him, and perhaps Cambria, as well.

But Nefirros was lulled to sleep by the gentle trickling of a nearby steam. His mind, however, was obscured by visions of the slain Furbolgs, the looks of contempt thrown to him by the females of the group, but most of all, his uncertain relationship with Cambria Shadowmoon.

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End file.
